


Life's What You Make It

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has a crush. And he's reduced to turning to the Warlock for relationship advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's What You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "That's Life"
> 
> * * *

“Whoa,” Matt says when he’s escorted into the holding area. The fed nods toward the sofa and the table of snacks before stepping back into the hall, leaving him alone with... yeah, he’s pretty sure that’s the Warlock.

The last time he saw Warlock, the guy had been living in oversized surf shorts and a bathrobe, and if he’d heard that a small family of chipmunks had taken up residence in the beard he wouldn’t have discounted the story out of hand. Now the beard’s been trimmed and the Warlock is decked out in a dark suit and tie. The effect is… rather unsettling, actually. He gives a long wolf whistle anyway, just to see Warlock grimace.

“Fuck you,” Warlock says. “I feel like I should be holding a tin cup for the accordion player.”

“Okay, dude, those monkeys wear little red vests and… oh,” Matt says when Warlock shrugs open his jacket to show off the vest. “Oh. Fuck.” He moves a little closer. “Jesus, it’s even embroidered.”

“Apparently it was the only one they could find in my size.”

Matt winces, smoothes a palm self-consciously down his lapel. He’d be wearing something equally ridiculous – probably the organ grinder to match Warlock’s monkey – if it hadn’t been for McClane dragging him out of the house a few weeks ago. “Every man should own a good suit,” John had said, and proceeded to cross his arms over his chest and watch as Matt was poked and prodded and _measured_ in a fashion that he never wants to have repeated. At least not by some prissy guy with onion breath and greasy hair. Now by McClane, on the other hand…

Matt shakes his head. “Keep the jacket buttoned, no one will notice,” he advises. “Can’t get a medal from the mayor wearing your PJ’s, right? Hey, speaking of PJ’s, are you still wearing the ones with the little feet? With the Superman logo?” He cocks his head. “Or was it Green Arrow?” 

“Fuck you,” Warlock repeats.

“That’s your comeback? You are off your game, man.”

The Warlock just fiddles with the Diet Pepsi in his hand, tugs at the collar of his shirt. “This whole thing is bullshit,” he grouses.

“Can’t disagree,” Matt says. He’d tried to get out of it, insisted that he didn’t actually DO anything besides flail his arms and be out of breath and scream a lot. But John had given him that look, that one that makes him just shut his mouth and basically stop _thinking_ never mind talking, and said, “You saved my daughter, kid.” 

So Matt shut up and bought the damn suit.

Well, John bought the suit, because Matt doesn’t actually have any money. But he’s going to pay him back. Eventually.

And Matt will stand between McClane and Warlock on the dais, and he’ll try to look like he’s paying attention when the Mayor gives his speech, and he’ll smile when he’s handed some cheap piece of tin in a fancy box. And then he hopes he never has to hear the words “fire sale” again. 

When the sound of voices in the hallway gets louder, he darts a glance over to the door. John had stayed in the outer office, talking to a bunch of the uniforms assigned to… Matt didn’t really know what they were assigned to do, really. Probably just stand around and look official. Keep an eye out. He knows that John would say that one New York City patrolman was worth ten Feds, anyway, and they probably needed to make sure there weren’t any Gabriel henchmen that the Feds missed staked out in the crowd, ready to put an end to the big fire sale heroes. 

Aaaaaaand he really wishes he hadn’t thought of that.

Matt wipes a suddenly damp palm on his pants, reaches for one of the courtesy Mountain Dews on the table. He’s sure he’s just overreacting. All of Gabriel’s guys were killed, except for the one that Matt himself shot. And that dude is still in the hospital under maximum security. It’ll be fine. And even if it isn’t… well, McClane is there. With John McClane next to him on the podium, nothing can happen to him. 

Matt pops the tab on the warm soda. It’s only after he takes a gulp that he realizes that the Warlock is staring at him. He blinks. “What?”

Warlock juts his ample chin at the closed door, raises a brow. “You tell him yet?”

Matt flushes. Telling Warlock about his unrequited crush on John McClane definitely ranks in the Top Ten stupidest things he’s ever done, right up there with eating two chili dogs before going on the scrambler and streaking his hair when he was fifteen.

“You didn’t tell him,” Warlock says flatly.

“It’s not that easy, okay? He’s all big and brawny and if he gets pissed he could kill me with, like, his little finger. I kind of enjoy breathing. Inhaling and exhaling? Super fun. Plus I’m pretty sure McClane is about one thousand percent straight.” Matt sighs. “Why couldn’t I just fall for the super in his building, or that dude in the sandwich shop that’s always giving me extra cucumbers?” He shakes his head, takes another swallow of the warm soda. “Life’s not fair.”

“Are you kidding me?” Warlock huffs out. “Who the hell ever said it was fair? Life is mostly a big bowl of suck with extra suck sauce and giant suck on top, with a side suck salad. _That’s_ life, dude. The good shit is rare, which is exactly why you gotta grab at it when it comes along.”

“I’m getting relationship advice from the Warlock,” Matt says to the air.

“Fuck you, I know shit. Who was it that put his mind to it and became the best motherfucking programmer in the country, huh? That’s right, me. Who is that created the three-tiered algebraic security code that is going to revolutionize computer programming as the free world knows it? Oh wow, me again. Who is it that encouraged _you_ to follow your dream of becoming the best fucking hacker in the tri-state area?”

“Actually, you said I was a scrawny upstart with a big mouth who should go back to geek-school,” Matt puts in.

“I _mentored_ you, dude. That was tough love.”

“Right,” Matt snorts. “Okay. Anyway, this is different.”

“Fuck that. It’s the same. You want something, you make it happen.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Oh. Okay then. Right. So let’s see. I’ll wait until McClane comes home from work some night, and then I’ll just go up to him and say, ‘Hey, by the way. John? I think you are one fine piece of ass. I’ve been fantasizing about your cock for months. I know you’re probably straight, but hey, wanna try batting for the other team?’ ‘Cause that’ll totally work.”

When someone clears his throat at the doorway behind them, Matt doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that it’s McClane. Even if Warlock’s eyes didn’t go saucer-wide, he’d know. Because that’s just how his life works. In the not-fair bowl of suck kind of way.

He does cringe, though, and mouths ‘Did he hear us?’ to the Warlock. 

McClane – of course it’s McClane, jesus, why did it have to be McClane – claps his hands together sharply. “Time to go, let’s get this party started,” he says.

Warlock just makes a face and shrugs at him before turning to set his soda down on the table. Helpful. 

“All right, Beluga, let’s move it, c’mon,” John says.

“You know, name-calling is a form of harassment, McClane,” Warlock says. “I could have you up on charges.”

“Yeah yeah, see my captain,” John says as he propels him through the door. Matt looks up from putting down his own soda – and saying a little mental prayer to Jesus, Buddha, and every other possible or potential deity he can think of – in time to see John glance back, wave a hand. “You too, Matty, come on.”

When he sees that John is waiting for him, Matt hustles to the doorway as fast as his gimp leg can take him. He steps through the archway a second ahead of John, bites his lip when he feels the warm press of John’s palm on the small of his back. He knows John is only doing it to urge him to move – it was a pretty common occurrence back on the Fourth, John putting his hands on him when they were rushing through tunnels, up stairs, through back alleys. Each time it caused a low, slow heat to curl in Matt’s stomach, even when the bullets were flying. It still does, even though he tells his body that it doesn’t mean anything now just like it didn’t mean anything then. John just wants him to hurry.

Then John’s hand slides down to cup his ass. 

And when John leans down and says, “Yeah kid, I heard ya,” – voice whisky-rough and breath warm against his ear – Matt bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood.

As it turns out, sometimes life is very fair.


End file.
